Torture

Sometimes I can't recall specific details, but I guess this is to be expected, a human mind can't handle too much trauma, memories must fade, and things are forgotten or blacked out. The mind closes in on itself, like a wound.

But there are somethings I can never forget.

I woke up on the cold hard cement floor of the basement. I was in terrible pain, nothing I had ever felt before. I realized how lucky had been before my kidnapping; my life was warm and sheltered compared to this. Naturally I cried.

I didn't want to be there obviously, but it hurt so much to move, especially my legs. I crumpled at the first stab of pain.

Unfortunately I wasn't the only one in the school basement.

I felt the tremendously strong pull on my legs. I was dragged back screaming hysterically, like in a horror movie. Instinctively I tried to grab onto the cold, smooth concrete floor, all this ensured was my newly-healed fingernails were ripped open again.

He was on me, over me. I threw up my hands instinctively, crying in fear. I could hear the familiar sniffing noises. Surely he would realize I was hurting, in pain, wouldn't he have mercy on me now?

Of course not. I don't remember anything else. Too painful

I remember I was bound with my arms behind my back. My wrists and ankles had been tied with a strip of leather. I could barely move.

Chains

I woke up suddenly; the uncomfortable white light of an oxyacetylene torch had penetrated through my eyelids. I was still lying on the cold uncomfortable concrete floor. I twisted my body around as best I could.

The light hurt my eyes so I didn't look at it directly. I could see the Creeper, wearing what looked like a crude welders mask. The flame sparked over some kind of metal. I could not see exactly what it was. I squirmed away from the bright uncomfortable light.

I could feel one of my hip bones jutting painfully into the floor. My stomach was squished too. I rolled over on one side moving accidentally towards the Creeper, I tried rolling awkwardly back and ended up rocking onto my back.

My bound hands were behind me, jutting into the small of my back, which was not at all comfortable. My nose was runny from crying and now it was all dripping backwards into my sinuses. With a grunt and another twist I was no facing away from the monster and whatever perverse project he was working on

The eerie uncomfortable light lit a corpse only half a foot away from my face, I inched back. I saw the ankles of a man, one foot was missing. The other had yellowed nails. The flesh around them had shrunk back somewhat, making them look like talons. A Zombie foot.

I closed my eyes.

Why does this have to happen to me?

I shut my mind to those kind of thoughts, they are no use, they only drive me deeper into despair. They are absolutely pointless, crying uselessly over you're fate only distracts and weakens you. And I needed all the strength I could get.

Pain still crashed in waves over my body, and my shifting position did not help. I wiggled again to relieve pressure on my hip bone. It hurt, humiliation was seared into my bones. He treated me so badly. I felt like trash.

Even in the worst of his lusts, his frenzies, he never did anything like this, he was angry, and I knew this brutal treatment was very deliberate.

I didn't fall asleep per se, but I did kind of blank out for a while. My mind wasn't open to anything, I blocked out the monster, the dead, my own pain, and for a while it was okay. It couldn't last though; I knew eventually he would turn his attentions back to me.

After a while there was a hiss and a rush of steam, I managed to turn around, he was dunking long pieces of metal into a nearby bucket of water. I watched warily and curiously over my shoulder.

He noticed me watching. He grinned, but there was more maliciousness in his smile then usual, if you can imagine such a thing. I immediately turned my head back, tried to hide. It didn't work; he cut the strips of leather holding my wrists and ankles and pulled me up to a sitting position. I remained quiet and still on the floor.

He dangled the pieces of metal in front of me. Through the darkness I could see that they were chains. He grinned his cold smile. He dangled them directly in front of my face. When I made no response he merely grinned wider and shook them again, making a clanking noise.

I could see through my misery that he held not one, but several chains in his hands. He shook them once again. An obscene realization entered my head. He wants me to choose?! He was holding the different chains up for my discretion. Ladies choice.

I made no attempt to humor him in his cruel games. I would not dignify his torture with a response, but ultimately the results were ultimately the same, he snapped a pair of chains onto my legs.

They held my feet together, not directly together, maybe about a half a foot apart. This was the farthest I could stretch them (I couldn't stretch them for a while though; it hurt way too much to spread them apart, or even to move much at all.) I could only hobble along, not walk. Later I would learn that these chains were called hobbles, designed for animals, refitted especially for me.

I could barely walk in these, let alone run. He kept these on for a long time.

Cold

I remember it being very cold.

For a while I did not notice. I was far too distracted to see anything in front of me. I was far too absorbed in my own thoughts to notice trivial things like cold or my own comfort. I don't even remember seeing any victims down there, except the ones already stuffed and mounted on the walls. Looking back it seems impossible, he must have brought people down there, and they must have screamed or cried or done something to gain my attention, but I simply don't remember anything like that. Possibly he killed them before bring them here, a small and rare kindness he might have granted me in those days. I can't say for certain for I simply I do not remember.

I don't know how long I was like this. For a long time there is only blank agony and oddly disconnected memories. I was absorbed in my own thoughts, or was simply not thinking at all, if such a thing is possible. I was turning the escape over in my mind again and again, agonizing over it. I had thought about what I could do differently, and despite my promise to myself I had asked over and over again that uselessly terrible question: why? Why did this have to happen to me? At other times I saw my past memories and images of my family, but I saw these things through a distorted lens, as if these things could not possibly have to do with my life. Then my thoughts would drift to the unspeakable in my belly and then wildly skitter around that subject like a nervous spider. In this dreamy, hazy manner did I drift through, what? Days? Weeks? Months? I had completely failed to notice something as blatant as the onset of winter.

To be fair I was not let out much after the escape attempt. I don't think I even went outside the building, except maybe to go to the bathroom. He must have brought my clothes and other necessities down here, or let me do it myself, but I was not allowed to go even to the upper levels with out him escorting me.

But why then did I not notice the bone chilling cold, the concrete under my feet that had felt like ice? I can remember shuffling and hobbling miserably throughout the dank basement, I remember the clink of chains and the slap of bare feet.

This is when I had the wherewithal to actually get up from my straw bed, which was rarely. Still, looking back at it, why didn't I at least notice the cold? For the next memory I can reliably place was a big shock.

I think he opened a cellar door; the cold winter light flooding in the basement had snapped me out of another dim haze. I got up from my straw bed and shuffled after him, my chains clinking with every step. I climbed gingerly up the steps, using both hands and feet, for I still tripped over my chains. When I reached the top step and stood erect and immediately gasped in surprise.

All around me was snow, great big piles of it. The BEATNGU sat in the white ocean, looking like it sank up to it's tires. Uneven hills of it had been created by the wind, although every inch of the ground was still blanketed by it. All the trees were leafless, looking like skeletal hands thrust to the grey cloudy sky. In the distant horizon where I thought I would see was dirt and tall dry grass was just more white sea.

Stomping through the white snow in front of me was the dark monster, looking oddly out of place indeed.

Yet despite the grim desolateness winter always brings I did not find myself depressed by it. Each feature, like the dead-looking trees, by itself seemed horrible, but combined it seemed wonderful, almost magical. The childish word was on my lips wonderland but I did not speak it.

I had never seen snow in person before that. Of course I knew what it was, I had seen countless pictures, books, movies, but it does not snow where I come from, and my family wasn't well-to-do enough to go take a long trip to a place that did snow. Besides we preferred the sun, due to geography it was relatively simple and cheap to go to the beach, or more rarely, the warm Caribbean islands. Snow was a very novel, exotic thing for me at the time.

So maybe that explains why I cracked a grin and burst into near-hysterical giggles, I clambered up to the surface, (again using my hands as well otherwise I would have toppled over), I stood in the snow in my bare feet and really without thought flopped down on my back.

The snow was soft; it made crunching noises as I move on to it. I giggled, half-insane. I moved my arms up and down, maybe I could fly. The mad elation of my juvenile act was cut short when I tried to do the same thing with my legs, of course I could not. The brutal sudden jerking of my legs pulled me out of my silly day dream.

I staggered up from my half-formed snow angel, the Creeper was looking at me, giving me a wondering "what-the-hell-are-you-doing?" look.

I felt a bit abashed but I continue trudging away from the school. He plows through the snow to his truck.

The cold is really starting to get to me. The sudden shock or realization that it was snowing seemed to wake me up to the fact it was cold. I start shivering for the first time. I have no shoes or socks, my body heat is starting to melt the snow on me, making wet and cold.

Still I continue onward enjoying the novelty of snow, of being out of the dank, gloomy basement for the first time in an eternity. I was approaching, not quite there mind you, the very threshold of being pleased.

The Creeper was frowning, prodding the tires with his toes, I wonder if he too has never seen snow in person. The cold doesn't seem to bother him, he is also barefoot, and I can see his odd looking tracks in the snow. I wonder some more, pondering what people who saw these tracks would think. I would later understand how much I risked to frostbite; although I was physically uncomfortable I often lost myself in my own head during those horrible days. I had to in order to avoid pain, unfortunately it often made me oblivious to the danger I often was to myself.

My footprints are next to his, small and blue in the snow. I'm so small, I suddenly feel weak, no point, how stupid and futile it was run away…

I shake my head snapping myself out of my trance, it's almost impossible to walk, my feet are completely numb, the cold metal chains stick to my bare skin. I hobble around, and then have to rest at a hip-high snow drift only a few feet away. I put my hands on it. I feel the cold. I use the sensation to realize that I'm still alive, that this is all real.

The Creeper has his back to me now; he's bending over, and fiddling with something I don't care about. My fingers dig deeper into the snow drift, feeling the snow compress deliciously in my bare hands. I have another very childish urge. I can make snow balls, packed tight, maybe with ice, maybe with rocks. I can throw them, like I've seen a thousand times in pictures, books and movies. I imagine them striking the hated BEATNGU, I imagine with giggling raving hysteria and dark black rage. I can see in my minds' eye the snowballs striking the monster then him jumping up with sudden indignity as they strike his ass. My hands tighten into fists but a sudden wave of fear and reason springs up. No.

This is stupid, it is stupid and childish and will accomplish absolutely nothing. I doubt he's in a tolerant mood. I unclench my hands and let the snow run through them. I suppress my anger so quickly and powerfully I shudder and gulp. I look for a second on the Creeper, then I drift away.

The cold is really getting to me, I shiver and rub my skin, press my numb lips together. One difficult step at a time, it's hard to walk in these chains, let alone run. I guess that's the point.

I can see only a little past the school yard. I cannot see the dirt road at all. I suddenly feel very isolated; maybe the rest of the world doesn't exist anymore. Just me and him, or maybe the rest of the world is asleep.

Very suddenly I think of my family, although they're not my family anymore because Maria Adams does not exists anymore; in her place is this strange sad creature. I wonder what they're doing now, if they even know I'm gone.

He found me later huddled in the snow, shivering badly, small and blue. I can remember a little of his expression, shocked maybe, upset? I cannot tell, he takes me back inside and I go very willingly. He keeps an eye on me. Later when I wander too close to the bulkhead one day he grabs me with shocking speed, and I understand suddenly how distressed he was at the idea of me wandering away, with or without chains.

Knife

I don't remember when this event happened exactly, since after the escape attempt I had trouble putting events in order in my memories, or even remembering at all. But I think this took place very near the time I first saw snow. This is because I remember it being cold.

The chains were really bothering me. I had snapped out of my fog, somewhat. I began to notice things that bothered me more. It was hard to wear socks and almost impossible to wear boots with the hobble around my ankles, so unless I buried them in my straw bed they were almost always cold.

I felt a dull resentment against the chains, a resentment that sharpened every day. I fell back into my old habit of picking at myself. I tugged against them, rubbed my skin raw, and scratched myself in frustration.

I wore thick wool socks; sometimes I tried to wear boots, since I only had one tennis shoe now. (Where did I get boots? I cannot not remember now, no matter how hard I try.) I was cold and uncomfortable; I could rarely go up to the upper levels with its warm stoves. No matter how many looks of pleading or anger I threw at him he did not remove the chains unless he was right there with me, and if he was feeling magnanimous.

My stuff was down there, all my bags and clothes, although I could not remember how they got down there, I was looking for something. What that something was is now also long forgotten, but my fingers brushed the bottom of my bag, then they brushed against my Swiss army knife.

My eyes widened I jumped as if shocked.

Stupid, stupid. I had forgotten about it. Again. I clutched it tightly, and then rapidly hid it in my shirt, just in case. I looked around furtively, but I did not see him, however I could hear him stomping around upstairs.

I lay there, curled and motionless. I felt that wild, foolish dangerous hope. The almost suffocating optimism that I haven't felt since the idea of stealing the truck came to me. Careful, I told myself and reined the feeling in. I couldn't do anything stupid again.

When I was sure he would be a way for a while (he checked my chains and locked both doors) I tool out the knife and began opening it. It takes a while, this model has almost everything. My cold fingers fumble with all the various mechanisms in the knife. I nearly drop it cursing.

A sudden unexpected noise makes me plunge it into straw. I sit there, trembling, when I hear nothing further I continue onward. When I finally have all the various knives open I study each one, trying to gauge their usefulness. I immediately put some away.

Even at its weakest point the chain cannot be sawed through, I try prying one link apart with a knife, but it's welded too securely. I shake the hobble violently in frustration, but it doesn't budge from it attachment to my ankles. I'm about to give up, then I notice something promising.

I see a screw in the shackle on my left ankle, and I have a screw driver. But my screwdriver is too small so I take the flat of a big blade and jam it into the screw, twist damn it. The screw moves maybe 45 degrees, slightly promising. I try and jam in again, it slips and slices a jagged line across my skin.

I begin to fear that it's all welded together too firmly but I can't just give up. Even if escape looks so nearly impossible I can't just give up. I just can't.

However my initial attempt had to be aborted The Creeper came "home". I plunge the Swiss Army Knife deep into the straw of my bed.

Knife Fight

In my eagerness I had grown careless. Maybe it was something in my demeanor, instead

of downtrodden and defeated I was more alert, and a little hopeful. I saw, or I thought I saw, the Creeper give me a suspicious lizard eye when he was at his work table. He eyed me coldly and calculatingly when he thought I wasn't looking.

He seemed to find excuses to keep a close watch on me and it nearly drove me mad waiting for him, but I knew I could outwait him. He had to eat sometime.

Finally when he left the cellar and I heard his car drive away I immediately got to work. I dug around for the knife, for one heart wrenching moment I thought it was gone, but then I found the hard lump near the floor.

With eager fumbling fingers I pulled out the biggest knife and began working on the screw that on the left shackle. It resisted me.

At this little bit of hard luck I burst into wild tears. I had no control over my emotions and reacted disproportionately and inappropriately to everything. I didn't even know if this screw was even important, even if I successfully removed it nothing could happen.

I fought to control myself and not resisted the urge to just lay down and go to sleep and drift off into blank misery again. In the dim light I though I could see scorch marks and melting around the edges, maybe it had been welded, but maybe he just passed over it. A tiny little mistake I could use to my advantage.

I twisted the knife into again, and again. It moved slowly, I gritted my teeth and gave it a final twist. It stuck out maybe a quarter of an inch.

An idea came to me; perhaps it would be easier with just my fingers. I don't have a lot of room to grab but I pinch around the screw twisting delicately. Slowly it eases out!

I was so absorbed in what I was doing, and feeling more and more optimistic that I was actual going to accomplish this. I don't know how much how much time had passed, or what pulled me out of this state. Possibly it was a strange sound that caught my attention, or maybe a continually growing feeling of unease. Whatever it was, on a hunch I looked over my shoulder.

He looked almost like a perfectly carved statue. He didn't move or react on bit to what I was doing. I of course reacted plenty. My mouth opened, I could feel the blood drain from my face, I started to have trouble breathing, however I had the presence of mind to quickly shove the knife back into the hay. I looked down, feeling once again irrationally ashamed, then glanced at his face. A slow amused smile spread across his originally expressionless face, as if he couldn't resist at the expression on my face. I looked down again, I saw his boots stomping towards me. I prayed silently and passionately that he wouldn't notice the loose screw, or that he wouldn't search the bed.

He grabbed me underneath my armpits and hauled me up to face level. My feet dangled off my straw bed and unconsciously I pressed down, trying to flatten the hay. His eyes were so wide, I could see the whites against the dark grey of his skin. I feel the familiar fear of Darius' eyes return. He starts to inhale rapidly.

I could hide the work on the hobble, I could maybe even hide the knife, but I couldn't hide the expression of guilt on my face. Does he even understand human emotions? If he can't he still makes a pretty good guess. He sets me down again and impatiently brushes aside the hem of my skirt. I know he sees the screw. He immediately begins to tearing apart the hay. I know I have only second before he finds it.

Acting swiftly, I bury the arm he's not holding into the straw, I have the advantage as I know where the knife is. He is very quick, but I manage to give him a shallow stab in the abdomen. I can feel the solidness of his abdominal muscles against my knife. He backs away, somehow I manage to get to my feel rapidly, despite my heavy stomach and chains. The knife is clearly visible in my hand. We have a standoff.

Stupid, stupid, is the word running through my head. I should have just gave up, surrendered and hope he wouldn't do anything bad, but I've woken up. All my anger and humiliation at how's he's treated me is coming back, and in this state I feel strong enough to defeat a thousand Creepers.

His eyes flick to the knife and then to my face. The knife seems so small now, but my anger blacks out my fear. I see him edge forward. I brandish the knife.

"Stay. Back." I say though gritted teeth. My voice was a little shaky, but there was iron determination in it. He doesn't comply with the order. I wield the knife and scream, I must look insane, I can feel spittle fly from my mouth and my eyes bulge out. "Stay the fuck back, I'll fucking kill you!" I scream nonsensically but still he rushed towards me. I can feel every cell quiver with energy.

In two bounds he was close enough to me, I began slashing wildly and he took most of it on his hands. Swiss army knives are versatile, but they're not very sharp. I barely scratched him. When I aimed for his face he skillfully shoved my arm aside with his left hand. It threw me off balance and now he was almost behind me.

I knew that I would be at a disadvantage if I tried to turn back around so I used the moment to swing a full circle and try to stab him again. Yes! I thought triumphantly as I thought I saw an exposed throat, however he was just way too fast and he swept my arm aside again, but instead of away he swept it downward. I thought maybe I could get him in the hip, but before I could even try he swept my arm again, but up to his shoulder. When I thought a third opportunity to stab him had presented itself he expertly clamped on to my arm, pulling it under his armpit. I was totally trapped and had no way to swing my knife.

It had all happened in maybe less than five seconds. I looked up in disbelief at his face. He smiled, I realized he was just toying with me. I was nothing compared to him, he was an expert at fighting.

He puts pressure on the underside of my elbow, it hurts and badly and my hand drops the knife. But I also drop it with a realization that there's absolutely no point in fighting now.

He bends down quickly and picks up the knife, looking at it with bright interest. I suddenly, in my anger and frustration and helplessness do something very foolish. "Keep it!" I spit out and turn around, unwisely leaving behind the knife, a gift from my favorite brother, behind.

I decide to leave. Before he could stop me, I scurried up the stairs, using all four limbs. He came to get me not much later; he won't leave me alone for long anymore. However I could go up into my old room, some of my stuff was there, as well as my old bed. I now feel almost nostalgic about it. I lay in the straw quietly for a while.

Anger is what it's called, but rarely do I feel anything for that long, there's always new problems. When the problem is solved it's gone, nothing to worry about. The Breeder is restrained and best of all she's quiet. The damage is repaired. Now things can go back to normal.

What is occasionally irritating is the noises she makes. They can range to puzzling screaming (when absolutely nothing is hurting her) to long drawn out moans and sobs, to hurling angry words at me. Generally I ignore all of these, although once I did gag her.

For a long time she spent most of the day sleeping excessively or staring at nothing. Now sometimes she glares at me with big dark eyes, maybe when she dies I will give her that expression.

She is so odd. She can burst into wild unpredictable rage after many days of emotionless lethargy. I thought she would be better behaved after the failure of her foolish escape attempt, and she was-for a while. Now she had the audacity to physically attack me. Needless to say she was largely unsuccessful.

Even more oddly, she gave me the weapon she was attacking me with. Like most human behavior it's incomprehensible, perhaps it's a cultural adaptation; gift giving for conflict resolution. If so, her culture wouldn't be the first to utilize such an idea.

After the fight she ran away, possibly to avoid more conflict, but I will go and fetch her shortly, I cannot allow her to be alone for too long.

When I first found this breeder I didn't think her exceptionally clever, nor did I find her exceptionally unintelligent. The most surprising thing about her was how resistant she was to me. Usually after mating and conception they accept me to one degree or another. She almost always fights, even at her most passive her muscles and bones stiffen in resistance, and while at first she didn't strike me as unusually bright, her stubbornness has proved to be a problem. She can find the one detail I've neglected: an unlocked door, the BEATNGU whose keys weren't removed, an improperly welded screw.

This makes me, and keeps me anxious.

It's only through constant vigilance that she hasn't succeeded again, watching, waiting for her to try and escape again. I must stay with her more, and hunt less. I do need less food than before but it is still a problem. Irritation colors the air around us, and it keeps perpetuating itself. I find it disconcerting, an emotion that will not go away.

Still it is only a shadow of the anger I felt when she almost succeeded in escaping. How good it felt to have her in my possession again! How angry I was at her for her brazen, audacious attempt! The violent mating that happened immediately afterward contained as much anger as lust, which is rare. It's not wise to treat a breeder as such, especially a pregnant one. Still I admit it felt good, as if I was reclaiming her, saying mine, mine, mine with each stab in-between her legs. I wanted to wash away the human world stink that clung (however faintly) on her and tattoo my very scent into her skin.